If I’m not mistaken, it was about three years ago when we invited Nihan Kaya to Rize for a book signing and talk. That was when I first met and had a conversation with her. Nihan Kaya is someone who is too delicate for this world, afraid of hurting others, and responds to questions with excitement and sincerity. She is deeply passionate about her work and has dedicated her life to writing and reading. This time, we talked about her eighth book, Kar ve İnci. The conversation became quite deep, but when putting it into writing, we had to cut some parts; otherwise, it would have exceeded fifty pages.
Nihan Kaya, who writes novels and short story collections, also has books analyzing literature and psychology. Her short story collection Çatı Katı won the Turkish Writers’ Union Short Story Award in 2005. She graduated from Boğaziçi University with a degree in English Language and Literature and later completed her master’s degree at the Centre for Psychoanalytic Studies at Essex University in England.
I read Kar ve İnci quickly, underlining passages along the way. I can say that the book gains momentum as it progresses. It affected me deeply. I know that you are reluctant to talk about your novels. In your view, a finished novel has already conveyed everything the author wants to say, and they have moved on to other stories.
Let me interrupt here. Actually, I don’t think exactly like that. It is true that I am reluctant to explain my novels. Novels or texts as a whole speak for themselves. However, I am more than happy to discuss the texts I have written. As you said, once a text is finished, there is a certain distance between the writer and the work; but the story continues in the new texts you write, even if their subject is completely different. Or, let me put it this way: “We actually tell the same story over and over again, but in different ways.” In this sense, the fundamental story behind my novels and research books is the same, even if they seem very different from each other.
Rather than delving too much into the content of the novel, I am more curious about how you tell your story rather than what you tell. In the simplest terms, I would like to explore the spirit that brings the novel to life.
I have a slight objection to this as well. What we tell and how we tell it are not separate things. Just as spirit and matter can be distinguished but not separated, with one being the other’s counterpart, the same applies to content and form. They are born together. In other words, content shapes form, and form shapes content. So, if I explain how I tell something, I am also explaining what I tell—one does not exist without the other.
Kar ve İnci. Both evoke different connotations. We can infer these from the novel’s plot. However, the metaphors of “kar” (snow) and “inci” (pearl) made me think of masculinity and femininity. It feels as though inci represents women, while kar represents men. Would this be a fair interpretation?
I never thought of it that way, but I love that someone has.
(Laughter)
The book frequently mentions water and the sea as concepts and metaphors. As you know, a pearl is something that forms within water, and snow is also a form of water. Snow is the solid state of water, and the fascinating thing about water is how it can take so many different forms. Kar and inci, when combined, evoke a sense of whiteness. Within this whiteness, there is an element of purity and nobility. The novel takes place on December 21st, the longest night of the year, during a lavish Farewell Night. The woman who unexpectedly enters the ballroom that night and whose past unfolds through flashbacks is named Gece (Night). The novel is actually built upon the contrast between black and white, yet the sea and water introduce a subtle presence of blue throughout the story.
The sea is usually imagined as blue, while ice and snow are white. Does this create a contradiction within the novel?
Yes, because life itself is full of contradictions. I won’t deviate from the topic for now, but Kar and İnci, both as proper names and as objects, hold many layers of meaning in the novel. Broadly speaking, inci represents the archetype of a child. The novel is dedicated “to being born,” and pearls symbolize all the children—both those who have been born and those who haven’t. It’s interesting that you mention masculinity and femininity because men and women represent opposing poles, much like black and white. However, these opposing forces do not fight or harm each other; rather, if they unite, they create something entirely new, something beyond just the sum of both. The child, who symbolizes creativity, is something that everything in the world resists, something the world does not want, according to Jung. And yet, it is born—despite everything opposing it, it insists on coming into existence. That’s what makes it so special and valuable.
The novel beautifully explores relationships between men and women, fathers and daughters, as well as love, passion, attachment, and commitment. And then there is the cello. I’m sure its inclusion in the story is no coincidence. Several pages are dedicated solely to exploring the musician’s bond with their instrument. At times, the narrative feels like direct speech, at other times like internal monologue. The events unfold as though they are happening in the present—there’s no specific timeframe. In fact, there is no chronological order to the events, and there is no clear sense of time in the novel. This is something we see in your other books as well. The pace of the novel shifts—it moves rapidly at times, then slows down—but the storyline never loses its grip. The internal monologues feel sincere and touching. I found it particularly striking how a female author could portray both men and women so authentically in love. All these elements intertwine seamlessly in the novel.
Yes. Thank you so much for noticing this. The novel is both highly pluralistic, even seemingly chaotic at first glance, yet at the same time very cohesive in terms of time, events, concepts, and objects. But I should add: In addition to internal monologues, there are moments when an unexpected voice suddenly enters the text, asking questions or making statements. The identity of this voice becomes clearer towards the end of the novel. Ayrıntı Publishing House typically does not use dialogue dashes, but in this case, we had to make an exception because these voices needed to be visually distinguished within the text. Likewise, the blank spaces scattered throughout the novel—which you won’t find in other books by Ayrıntı—serve a specific function. Nothing in the novel, not even the blank spaces or dashes, is arbitrary. Even if they seem meaningless or strange at first, they all serve a purpose.
Beyond these formal differences, it is also clear that no object or name in the novel has been chosen randomly. So, let’s talk about the cello. Among all musical instruments, why the cello?
Since the cello caught your attention, let me ask you first—why do you think I chose it?
To me, the cello has always felt like a very feminine instrument. It seems as though only women should play it because they hold it in their arms.
And yet, would you say that a woman playing the cello is not graceful?
No, I wouldn’t. I think if a man plays it, it loses its elegance…